


sharpen your knife

by NalgeneWhore



Series: Rowcan One Shots [5]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Blood, Death, Homophobia, M/M, Song Fic - Take Me To Church (Hozier), Stabbing, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NalgeneWhore/pseuds/NalgeneWhore
Relationships: Lorcan Salvaterre/Rowan Whitethorn
Series: Rowcan One Shots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636585
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	sharpen your knife

Soft fingertips trace over the fading ink, a giddy feeling growing in Rowan’s chest. He pores over the letter, countless others spread across his bed.

His lover’s handwriting is messy and scrawled, practically illegible, but Rowan reads it just fine. He’s had his bag packed since the first time Lorcan uttered the thought. Ever since they thought about running away and leaving this cold little town in their dust. 

They plan to leave during the night, slipping off into the shadows so no one sees where they go. 

Rowan looks out his window, scrambling to gather every precious letter up and putting them back in the carved box his gentle mother left for him. One slips off the pile and floats to the wooden floors of the bedroom in his father’s house. 

Rowan carefully puts the others away and leans off the edge of his bed, picking it up. It’s one of the letters they exchanged for months, two different styles of script marking every last millimetre of the rough paper. 

He smiles softly, reading the conversation. At one point, he jokingly wrote they would never go to heaven and Lorcan wrote back, _The only heaven I’ll be sent to is when I’m alone with you._

So dramatic, his love. 

Heavy boots stomp up the stairs and Rowan slams the box shut, shoving it beneath his bed just before his bedroom door is shoved open. His father stands on the other side, already looking at Rowan with a disapproving glare. “Son, you’ll be late for temple.” 

“Oh, sorry, I just–” 

“What will they think if their priest’s own _son_ can’t even care enough to be on time? It's embarrassing.” 

Rowan flushes unwillingly under the critique, feeling himself shrink slightly. He dreads every interaction with his father. “I’m sorry. I was out late with Aelin, she needed help with her store.” His father likes Aelin. Aelin is much better at hiding her sins, at hiding her heart and the fact that it lies cradled in the iron-tipped hands of their town’s healer.

Approval flashes across his father’s mud brown eyes. Rowan inherited his mother’s green colouring, yet another thing for his father to resent him for. “Just get ready.” 

Without another word, Rowan’s father turns on his heel and walks back down. The front door opens and then slams shut, making Rowan flinch as he picks up a clean white shirt and his brown slacks. 

He hurries out after getting dressed, not noticing the one letter he didn’t put away, the most intimate of all.

The pew is uncomfortable. Rowan stifles the urge to shift as he listens to his father’s sermon, trying to keep his eyes open. He turns with everyone else when the temple doors open and in steps a dark figure, his face bordering on bored. 

Eyes, black enough to make his pupils indiscernible from his obsidian irises, slide to Rowan’s and affection flickers through them as Lorcan takes his seat. All things considered, Lorcan is relatively early for his schedule. 

Rowan turns back to his father, recalling the time Lorcan entered five minutes before the end and how his father’s craggy face mottled with purpling rage. Later that night, when he had snuck over to Lorcan’s house, they had laughed themselves hoarse. 

Soon and yet far too long, his father dismisses the congregation. Rowan tells him Aelin needs his assistance yet again. His father frowns but nods, “Fine.” 

Triumph sparks in his veins and somehow, Rowan manages to shove his emotions down. He leaves the temple, not bothering to check over his shoulder when he goes straight instead of left to the town square. 

He breaks into a sprint when he sees Lorcan leaning against a tree, his smile unbridled and free. He crashes into Lorcan, making the dark haired man take a step back to avoid tipping over. “I missed you.” His hands curl into Lorcan’s hair. Rowan wishes Lorcan would come more often, just so they interact in public without being suspicious, but his love can’t do it. 

They were born sick and are fed a fresh batch of poison each week, the cure determined to rot their pure souls, but it doesn’t work. It could never work. 

“I missed you too,” Lorcan whispers. He puts Rowan down on his feet and smiles at him, “C’mon, I bought something for you.” 

“Is it a surprise?” Rowan asks as he laces his fingers with Lorcan’s, letting himself be guided down the path to Lorcan’s one-room cabin. 

“Yes.” 

He bites his lip as he smiles, draping his arms around Lorcan’s shoulders as he opens his door, “Won’t you tell me?” 

“No, I shan’t,” Lorcan says, turning in Rowan’s arms to grip his hips. 

“But I would like for you to tell me.” Rowan pouts, lazily sliding his fingers into Lorcan’s hair once again.

Lorcan laughs, “Go sit down, I’ll tell you.” He pushes Rowan to his bed, which is tucked in the corner under the window. 

Rowan goes, sitting expectantly on the comfortable mattress. He looks around, smiling again at the sight of Lorcan’s bag packed by the door. “You’re all ready, then?” 

Turning, Lorcan nods, a glimmer of anticipation glowing in his eyes. “And you?” 

“I’ve been ready for eons,” Rowan says quietly, but not shyly. 

“Me too,” Lorcan whispers, digging a brown paper package, tied neatly with string, out of his kitchen cabinet. “This- it’s for you.” He crosses over to the bed and sits down, one leg folded on the mattress and the other hanging off the side. Lorcan rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks reddening, as he hands it to Rowan. “You- can open it, or whatever. I just-” 

The silver haired man kisses him softly to shut him up, smiling gently, “Thank you, my love.” He sits back, excitedly tearing through the paper to uncover the unblemished face of a brand new book. 

His eyes shine as he runs his fingers over the finely made book, not like the ragged copies Rowan has practically read to pieces. The title is embossed and golden, reading _The Iliad._ “Lorcan,” he breathes, looking up with wet eyes, “this- you- how did you pay for this? You shouldn’t have.” 

Lorcan shrugs, picking at the worn hem of his heavy pants - perfect for the menial tasks he performs around town. “I saved up. I just wanted you to have something that reminded you of home. Of Aelin.” Aelin runs the bookstore in town and stocks classics just for Rowan. 

“It’s perfect,” Rowan says, hugging it to his chest. “I love it. I love you.” 

“And I love you,” Lorcan replies, pulling Rowan close to kiss him. His lips are soft and warm against Rowan’s, his tongue gently prying Rowan’s mouth open to tangle with his. “Are you sure?” About leaving. About leaving and never coming back, never even looking back. 

Rowan doesn’t reply and instead puts his new book and the wrapping paper to the side. He pushes Lorcan down on his back and lets his kisses be his answer. 

_Yes, a thousand, a million times yes._

After, later, when night has fallen and Rowan knows he should go home before his father grows suspicious, they lie together. 

Rowan is sprawled across Lorcan’s chest, his nose pressed into the curve of Lorcan’s neck. Lorcan’s fingers slowly drag up and down his spine, the movement soothing and grounding as their pleasure fades. 

“Are you sleeping here,” Lorcan murmurs, burying his face in Rowan’s silvery-blond curls. He can… handle one more night, one more lonely night. 

They have the rest of their lives. 

Rowan groans, dreading moving from their little world, “I shouldn’t.” He moves, but only to look down at his lover, “Are we wrong? Is our love… wrong?” 

Lorcan shakes his head, cupping the side of Rowan’s neck to stroke his thumb over Rowan’s jaw, “There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.” 

“You’re so dramatic,” Rowan mutters, rolling his eyes in jest. Then, he settles back down, his eyes drooping shut. 

All that is heard is the slow, even breathing of two beings completely and utterly comfortable together. In their own world, which they carved out for themselves - just for _them_. 

The sun is barely up when Rowan wakes. He is still laying across Lorcan, his lover dead to the world beneath him. 

Lorcan’s leg hangs off the edge of the mattress, his other slotted between Rowan’s. One hand is tucked behind his head and he cradles Rowan to him with his other arm. His plush lips are parted, the disarrayed strands of hair shielding his face shifting with every even exhale. 

He needs to leave, before the village wakes up. 

But he can’t leave. He can’t leave. 

So Rowan puts his head back down and sleeps just a little while longer. 

It’s Lorcan who wakes him up the second time, “Ro, shit, Ro, you have to go.” 

“Mm-hmm, yeah,” he mumbles, stumbling to his feet. Lorcan tosses his clothes at him. Rowan just barely catches them and manages to pull them on, still half asleep. He yawns and slaps his cheek a couple times. 

Lorcan chuckles softly, “Go, go home. Meet me here at nightfall, ok? And we’ll leave.” 

Rowan nods, leaning down one last time to kiss him, “I’ll be back. Be… quiet today. Lie low.” 

Lorcan’s laughter is raspy, “I promise.” 

“I love you.” 

His dark eyes are soft and open, reflecting too much as he softly murmurs, “I love you.” 

It takes one last kiss for Lorcan to physically push Rowan away, banishing him from his house. Rowan glances back once before he closes the door, smiling at the way Lorcan turns onto his stomach and hugs his pillow. 

He meanders back to town, taking his sweet time as he cracks open his new book and reads as he walks. 

Rowan gets to a fork in the path. If he goes left, he’ll go home, but if he goes right, he can go see Aelin. 

He chooses right. 

Rowan flips through the pages, eyes catching on black ink that marks the page after the title. 

It’s a rough sketch of him, depicted as a deity. Before him, there is a kneeling man, dark hair spilling over his shoulders and back. It half hides the tattoos he knows so well. Beneath it, Lorcan penned a short sonnet, only two lines.

_If I’m a pagan of the good times, my lover’s the sunlight_

_To keep the god on my side, he demands a sacrifice._

His breath hitches in his throat and Rowan swiftly shuts the tome as he enters the square, making a bee line to Aelin’s store. Despite the early time, she’s already opened and is even waiting outside. 

The minute she spots him, walking with purpose, tears line her eyes and she runs to him, “Ro, where is Lorcan?” 

“...at home. I just left him, he’s sleeping,” Rowan says in a hushed voice. “What’s wrong?” 

Aelin shakes her head, fearfully looking around them, “Someone figured it out. They- I heard them last night, in the pub. They talked about catching you two, you need to go home, now, Rowan.” 

Terror sharpens his senses as Rowan turns, his book falling from his hands as he breaks into a sprint, racing for his father’s house. Maybe he can stop them, maybe he can save Lorcan. 

The house looks like a storm swept through it. Furniture is upturned, plates and bowls shattered against the floor. Rowan hears clattering upstairs, gasping involuntarily when something is thrown down the stairs. 

Swallowing his panic, Rowan carefully walks up the stairs, dodging a forgotten tea cup hurled towards him. 

His things, they’re ruined, tossed around carelessly. The bag he packed lays empty, his clothes and most precious books in a heap on the floor. Rowan peeks into his room, seeing his father sitting on his bed with a letter in one hand, the locked box in the other. “Father–”

“Don’t you fucking say a word, boy,” his father snarls. “I saw you. Running to his house after temple. Open this gods-damned box, right now!” 

He flinches at the volume, at the anger in his father’s voice. Shaking his head, Rowan steps back, “No. It’s none of your concern.” 

“None of my concern?” His father stands up, his hands shaking in rage as he prowls closer to Rowan. He corners Rowan against the wall, his face centimetres from Rowan’s. “You’ve been fucking that disgusting heathen! He corrupted you!” 

Spittle flies out, landing on Rowan’s face. “I love him.” 

He’s never seen his father so angry. His father hurls the box on the floor, the fragile wood shattering. Letters upon letters spill out. “Boy, you are a gods-damned embarrassment. You are disgusting. Why would you do this to me?” 

“I’m not doing it to you! I love him, I am in love with Lor–” pain flares across his face when his father backhands him. 

“Don’t speak his name,” he hisses, eyes livid. “Don’t you dare mention that sinner’s name in my house, boy!” His hand fists around the letter, crumpling it up into a ball. 

Rowan holds a hand to his cheek, tears forming in his eyes, but it’s not from the slap. He is not a sinner, he is not disgusting. His father sees the defiance in his green eyes, sees that this will not break Rowan. 

He pulls something out of his pocket - a matchbook. He flicks his eyes to the letters on the floor and moves like a shadow, shoving Rowan hard enough that he falls to his ass when he grabs his arm to stop him. 

“Please, don’t touch them, _please_ ,” Rowan begs, crying as he watches his father light the match and drop it. The flame doesn’t catch, but when his father curses and tries again, Rowan sobs, “No, stop, please, father–” he is sent reeling when his father slaps him once again. 

“You are not my son.” The dark figure looms above him and grabs his throat, squeezing as he drags Rowan to his feet. “You. Are. Not. My. Son.” 

Rowan claws at the hand, gasping for air. “L-let… me go.” He is shoved into the wall, his head knocking so hard that the painting of his mother rattles. In his unsteady state, Rowan is powerless when his father grips the back of his neck and forces him down the stairs in a hunched position. 

He is dragged through the town, onlookers silent to his humiliation. He hears one cry, looking to the side to see Manon holding Aelin back. Tears pour down his cheeks as he’s pushed and his knees bark in pain when they make contact with the stones of the square. 

Someone yanks his head back, pulling at his hair. Lorcan is a mere three metres away from him, his hands bound to posts, his shirt stained and torn where it lays on the ground. Someone stands with a bloodied whip behind him, red liquid dripping from the braided leather. 

His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched. Rowan screams, maybe Lorcan’s name, and his dark haired love looks up, something in his expression breaking. One of his eyes is nearly swollen shut, his nose bloodied and cracked, his lip split and bleeding.

“Ro,” he groans, “Rowan, no, don’t… don’t touch him, please. Don’t touch him.” Lorcan shakes his head slowly. “I’ll do whatever you want, please, just don’t touch him.”

“This is what you get,” hisses an evil voice in Rowan’s ear. “This is what happens to people like him, boy.” Rowan turns his head away when the man standing behind Lorcan raises his arm, but his head is wrenched back, “Open your eyes.” 

A broken sob rips from him, tearing his throat as the whip cracks across Lorcan’s back. Lorcan cries out, arching against the restraints. But he looks at Rowan, his own tears cutting through the mess on his face. _I’m sorry._ Lorcan’s spine curves, he groans in pain when he’s lashed again. _I love you._

Rowan breaks, sharply head butting his father behind him and staggering to his feet. He regains his balance quickly enough, the dizziness secondary as he runs to Lorcan. 

He crashes to his knees again, so close to touching him when he’s pulled back again. “No,” Rowan screams, fighting against the hands that hold him, “Lorcan, no!” 

“Quiet, quiet or I’ll gut him. I’ll make you kill him.” 

Rowan sobs again, shaking his head as he’s dragged back but still, he reaches for Lorcan. He’s tossed to the side like a rag doll, hitting the ground like a sack of hammers. Gods, he can hardly move, but he needs to. 

He groans while he tries to stand. His legs are too weak so he tries to crawl, rocks cutting into his palms. Slowly, painfully, Rowan drags himself closer and closer. His father is busy spewing scripture to the onlookers and praising the whipper. 

“Lorcan,” Rowan whispers, his voice cracking, “my love, please, look at me.” 

Lorcan lifts his head. When Rowan brushes his hair back, Lorcan rests his forehead on Rowan’s, breathing heavily, “I love you, Rowan. You are my god and I love you.” 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Rowan weeps, gently cupping Lorcan’s face and kissing him once. Someone tries to rip him away, but Rowan holds on tighter, refusing to let go, kisses him again. “We’re leaving, ok, this is a dream, it’s not real, it’s not real, love.” 

The hands on him are squeezing tight enough for him to whimper and finally, they drag him away. Rowan yells, “It’s not real! Lorcan, this is a dream, _please_.” He’s dumped on the cobblestones, but before he can move, someone holds him back, someone with soft and gentle hands. 

Aelin hugs him, fisting her hands in his shirt, “Ro, please, stop, they’ll kill you, stop fighting.” She rocks him like a babe, whispering meaningless words as he bawls, hot tears blurring his vision. He looks to Lorcan, watches as his father yanks his head back and holds a sharp dagger in his hand. 

Rowan screams again, too weak to fight against Aelin anymore. Her own tears drip into his hair as they watch, unable to look anywhere else. 

Lorcan looks at Rowan, giving him that soft, loving look he only ever gives Rowan. “I love you,” he says, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain of his hair being pulled. “Say it back, say it back to me.” 

His voice is cracking and fear shines in his eyes, “Please, Ro, say it back.” 

“I love you,” Rowan shouts, trying to push Aelin away as his father cuts the ropes binding Lorcan’s hands. Lorcan collapses, just barely managing to catch himself before he falls on his face. Rowan looks to his father, “Don’t touch him.” 

He can’t do anything, not when his father pulls Lorcan back up, “I told you, boy, this is what you get when you stray. The gods will punish you, for listening to him. He is of the dark lord, what did you expect?” 

Rowan shakes his head, watching with wide eyes as his father lowers the blade to Lorcan’s exposed neck, right over his pulse. “Please, please, leave him alone. I’ll do whatever you want, please–”

“It’s too late for begging,” his father sneers, snapping Lorcan’s head back. “Any last words?” 

Lorcan’s eyes don’t shift from Rowan as he says, “I love you.” Rowan sees that Lorcan’s accepted his fate and wants to rage, he wants to riot. He wants to curl himself around Lorcan so that he can never be hurt. 

Time comes to a standstill as Rowan sees his father’s arm move, holding the blade up high. He thrashes, throwing Aelin’s hold off as he dives forward. Lorcan reaches for him, yet even still, he’s too late. 

Just as Rowan’s fingertips brush against Lorcan’s collarbone, the tip of the blade pokes through Lorcan’s chest. Lorcan roars, falling as the blade sinks into his body over and over in a bloodthirsty frenzy.

Rowan’s father releases his hold on Lorcan’s hair, letting him drop into Rowan’s arms. Blood drips from the dagger and Rowan swears he can hear every droplet hit the stones. He isn’t in his body anymore. 

He watches from afar, watching himself cry hysterically, his hands pressing against Lorcan’s countless wounds.

Lorcan’s blood spills over Rowan’s fingers and Lorcan chokes on it, coughing onto Rowan’s white shirt. In a flash, Rowan crashes back into his body, wracked with sobs. “Lorcan, don’t leave me. Open your eyes, please, _open your gods-damned eyes!”_

His dark lashes flutter as he opens his eyes, his skin paling. His lips move, trying to say something, but he coughs again, blood dripping down his chin. Rowan shakes his head, his heart cracking, “Don’t- don’t talk, love.” He lowers his head, pressing his forehead against Lorcan’s, “We’re gonna wake up and we’re gonna leave, yeah? We’ll be-” he chokes, crying softly, “we’ll be _happy_ , my love. We’ll be so happy.” 

Lorcan smiles softly, his hand weakly grasping Rowan’s. “I should’ve-” his words are strangled and he swallows once, his breathing laboured. 

“Lor, please, don’t talk, it’s ok–” 

Lorcan channels every last dreg of strength to grip Rowan’s hand, his blood making their fingers slippery, “I should’ve… wor- worshipped you…” he breathes in a shallow breath, his lungs giving up, “sooner.” 

His eyes fall shut and they don’t open again. “No, no, nonononono,” Rowan breathes, his eyes searching for any sign of life. “Lorcan, wake up. Wake up, please, please.” Lorcan’s body grows limp, his hand slipping from Rowan’s. He cries, sobbing, and shakes Lorcan. “Wake up, look at me.” 

He looks up, begging anyone to help. They all stare silently at him, their faces blank. Rowan sobs, gathering Lorcan’s lifeless body up in his arms. He rocks back and forth, his brow pressed against Lorcan’s shoulder. It’s still warm. “Come back to me, come home to me,” he prays, tears streaming incessantly down his cheeks. 

Rowan lifts his head, begging Lorcan to breathe, for him to open his eyes. But Lorcan remains still and Rowan’s tears fall onto his cheeks. It looks like Lorcan is crying for Rowan’s tragedy. 

“Wake up,” he whispers, whispering it over and over. He whispers it when the villagers go about their days, still kneeling on the ground. He whispers it as he sways to and fro, whispering it until his voice is hoarse and night falls. 

An old man lives in the village, down a dirt path behind the temple, in a small cabin. 

He never comes to town, instead sustaining himself by the garden and livestock he raises. Every week, the elderly bookkeeper goes to visit him, bringing him a new book. 

He never bothers anyone and in turn, they keep their distance. He has silver hair, but some say it’s always been that way. His eyes are green, vibrant enough for the youngins to see when they spy on him through the trees. 

Every morning, he makes two cups of tea and two plates of food. He walks to a patch of land beneath his house. It’s decorated with an abundance of flowers, ones he cares for lovingly.

He sets down the cups and plates, a thick stack of papers tucked next to the two books he carries - one that is always, always the same. 

He sits down even though every morning it becomes more of a challenge to stand up again. When he speaks, he doesn’t speak either the common or Old Language. It’s one none of the children have heard before and when they ask their parents, they’re told to leave the poor man be. 

One brave child, the bravest of all, once asked the bookkeeper. She gave them a conspiratorial wink and whispered of a land leagues away, made up of small, broken pieces of land in the cold and unforgiving sea of the north. 

She doesn’t tell the children the old man senses them as they watch him. It amuses him and he talks about it to the flower patch as he reads, mentioning it casually. They never see or hear anyone respond, but he laughs and chats, as if in real conversation. 

When he finally goes back inside at the end of the day, they spy through his window to see him writing letters that he never sends. 

The grass rustles with a gentle breeze. Rowan breathes in deeply, shuffling down the path he’s worn over the past half a century. So long to be without his love. He’s sensed the end coming for a while now. A gentle premonition that settled over him. 

Manon confirmed it, her eyes glowing with a soft joy. Not out of a cruel amusement, but out of love, that his pain would soon be forgot as he is returned to his heart, the one he buried what seems like a lifetime agony

He doesn’t bring tea or breakfast today. _“If you’re angry about that,”_ he mutters as he lowers himself to the ground, _“you can yell at me later.”_

The Iliad is cracked and weathered now and as always, Rowan flips through to the drawing Lorcan left for him, his shaky hands tracing the words until they come into focus. His eyesight isn’t quite what it used to be. 

_“You always were a dramatic bastard,”_ he whispers fondly in Lorcan’s mother tongue. Rowan remembers the patience with which Lorcan had as he taught Rowan. 

With a soft sigh, Rowan looks up, looking at the grave, _“Well. What shall we read today, my love?”_


End file.
